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Category: Tales of Men and Ghosts

Edward Boyne, on numerous occasions, preferred to remain in his library. Within his business, “Blue Mine Star”, he collaborated with Robert Elwell, one of his colleagues. Alas, Elwell perpetrated suicide due to Boyne’s avarice that razed his financial abundance.

Thought-provokingly, Wharton designated the library to be the primary whereabouts of the paranormal emergence of Elwell’s specter, and the inexplicable disappearance of Boyne’s body.

The library, obviously, is a collection of information sources—a place for the curious to engage in the explorations of new knowledge. Furthermore, such properties reflect the pecuniary advantage, by deception, of Boyne, as his personal treasury of books signifies his opulence. It is evident that the prosperous could have the wherewithal for a library, in contradistinction to the penurious Elwell.

A significant irony is apparent, too, with the fact that the library is heaven for those who seek knowledge, yet is portrayed—by a seeker of knowledge, Mary Boyne—as the most mysterious region within the house; it is the hidden territory of an untold conundrum, as Mary Boyne states, “The books on the shelves had seen his face… but the revelation never came.” In short: the library’s purpose is to provide answers, yet it merely provides questions.

Books are written records of events. The words within the pages enable readers to cruise into the oceans filled with the chronicles of the past. Hence, the library is a portal to new worlds. But in this horrific tale, Elwell entered the physical, natural world, while Boyne entered the supernatural world. The life of Elwell had been accounted, not through the letters within the books, but a letter left by Boyne.

Boyne had authored, without penmanship, a story of a wraith. The story came to life, and it endures in his library, akin to the books within it.

Diabolical eyes that haunted Andrew Culwin had precipitated insomniac. As an intellect, he ruminated on the phenomenon of cause-and-effect, in both a scientific and a spiritual approach. Hallucination postulations lacked corroborations, but shattered relationships obtained verifications.

As a homosexual, he revoked marriage with Alice Nowell, and undertook deception to Gilbert Noyes. Lust had cocooned his heart.

Yet where did lust originate? From an empiricist tool: the eyes—a source of deceitful aspirations. Without eyesight, lust would not exist; only darkness would. Conversely, Culwin was not blind.

However, he was blind in the sense that he cannot see his own eyes. Sight and blindness, then, is contrary, but not contradictory. It is a paradox present in Culwin. His sight enables him to see the outside, but his blindness disables him to see the inside, as his eyes are invisible to his eyes.

As an eyeless creature cannot observe light, light exists nonetheless; as Culwin cannot discern his own eyes, his own universe is an illusion to himself.

Wharton feasibly agrees with Plato that the three-dimensional human reality is limited, yet countless fail to realize. The eyes symbolize the gateway into a new dimension, but one’s intuitions merely chases the shadows of what is real. Therefore, Wharton conveys that human beings, by nature, take perception for granted, dismissing the flaws within the irises that possess one’s true identity.

However, by contemplating one’s own reflection through a mirror, one will fathom out new worlds within oneself: seeing beyond the physical reality, and reaching metaphysical spirituality. Since reflections require light, and since light represents awakening, cognizance and sagacity—specifically, enlightenment—therefore, to genuinely appraise oneself, one necessitates an enlightened mind to attain the truth.

Once veracity uncovers self-delusion, one acquires the responsibility to transfigure one’s heart of hearts. This opportunity had encountered Andrew Culwin.

“The Bolted Door” tells the story of Granice, a middle-aged playwright that had an unpleasant past. He was broken home, lacking money, and often ill. He then decided to murder his cousin, Joseph Lenman, who was obsessed with watermelons. As a result, he had what he desired—“change, rest, life.”

Eventually, what was fortune to him had become remorse. He was desperate to publicize the truth and cross the great divide. However, he failed to corroborate his confessions that no detective, editor, physician, or lawyer admitted to be persuaded.

This man cannot escape because he does not possess the tools to unbolt ‘the bolted door’. He is stuck in a room of self-condemnation, enveloped by the guilt of the sins he committed. Salvation is on the other side.

Interestingly, Wharton was against the doctrine of the Atonement. Christ’s death is supposed to be the way out of suffering, but the story demonstrates the way into suffering. Wharton did not embrace the theology that alters hardship into hope. She was sensible to the Old Testament—not the New Testament.

I assert that Jesus’ crucifixion is a cold case homicide, like Lenman’s, but perhaps it does not appeal to Wharton that such a sacrifice would restore the problem of pain. Lenman was sacrificed to bring prosperity; nevertheless, it was impermanent.

Wharton implicates that the roads to atonement are barricaded in the contemporary world—the repentant seeks redemption, but merely discovers ‘the bolted door’. Metaphorically, the keys required to unlock it are the empirical evidences of the murder act.

During the Victorian Era, science vs. religion was a prominent issue. Yet, Wharton juxtaposed moral principles and scientific empiricism: the theory of Darwinism annihilates the notion of right and wrong; the doctrines of Christianity maintain the objectivity of good and evil.